You Found Me
by TheLazyBAMF
Summary: "Moriarty wanted Sherlock destroyed and you just gave him the perfect ammunition." "Family is all we have in the end Mycroft Holmes." "He was a rubbish big brother." Mycroft can't take the stress and the pain anymore. WARNING: Self-Harm Also in AO3
1. Chapter 1

**"Moriarty wanted to destroy Sherlock, and you gave him the perfect ammunition."**

 **"Why didn't you intervene sooner?"**

 **"I hate you, Mycroft!"**

 **"You know what he calls you? The iceman."**

 **"You are the worst brother anyone could have the misfortune of having."**

 **"You useless bastard!"**

Mycroft drank his scotch as he gazed at the blazing fire. His brother has been back in London for two months now. Everything was back to normal, he still received various glares from politicians, and whispers flew as he passed. Normal.

He was alone in his house; the staff was given the week off. He didn't have a meeting scheduled for at least two more days, which was a miracle in itself. He wanted to work though. He wanted the distraction, the exhaustion that would have him collapsing at the end of the week.

Mycroft Holmes was one of the most influential people in the world. He made himself indispensable and invisible. When the time comes, he would receive no honor, no title, and no recognition for everything he did. He would never receive the thank you of the family of the men he helped save nor the praises of the people who he protected in a daily basis. Despite those facts, he would be remembered as the Iceman who may as well have murdered his brother. The Iceman who ordered the deaths of people, including civilians, for the sake of the majority.

Contrary to popular belief he did have emotions. He did have a conscience. People expected him to make the hard choices, things that would make any man sick. He did it anyway because if he didn't lives would be ruined.

Sherlock jumped for the three most important people to him. He survive two years alone, wiping Moriarty's web as Mycroft sat in his safe desk, worrying. Seeing his brother being beaten almost made him sick, he wanted to beat the Serbian himself but in order to rescue his brother, he needed to climb the ranks and watch the baby brother he strove to protect be beaten mercilessly.

He finished his scotch, chastising himself for losing focus. He walked to his room. He removed his jacket and cufflinks in order to fold his sleeves up to his elbows, the action rewarded him with the sight of old scars criss-crossing on his arms. He removed his tie and waistcoat. Leaving him with his crisp white shirt and black trousers. He sighed as he put the articles on his bed before proceeding to his private bathroom.

He grabbed a gleaming scalpel, hidden within a hidden compartment on his bathroom before locking the door.

He swallowed thickly as he gazed at his phone. He developed this habit a while back. He waited for a call. He always waited for a call, he never understood why. Whether he wanted someone to intervene or for someone to just be there. He never knew if he wanted a call from his brother, his parents, Anthea, or even the bloody PM.

He sat down by the sink. Mycroft Holmes does not cry. Mycroft Holmes does not have emotions. Mycroft Holmes is not important to anyone. He does not have any purpose but to serve the crown. He believed the mantra like a Christian to a bible.

He sighed as the call he was waiting from whoever it is never came. He bit his lip as he remembered the operations he led, all the lives that he took, all the hate he faced every day.

During his earlier years, he was stupid enough to cut near the wrist. It was visible and people saw it. After the horrible emotional confrontation and various threats of visits to counsellors, he made sure that no one saw his scars again.

He cut a few centimeters down the elbow. The blood flowing out and he felt his guilt, his burdens flow out with them. He made another one and sighed as the tension on his shoulders vanished. He tried with the other arm, the more the blood flowed, the more he forgot about his troubles.

 **"It's all your fault!"**

 **"How can you order such a thing?"**

 **"I wish Moriarty targeted you instead."**

His eyes snapped open as his thoughts and memories collided with each other. Tears unknowingly fell from his eyes. He convinced himself that he was not suicidal; one Holmes suicide was enough as it is, but he didn't mind dying. Maybe it would all be for the best. He won't get in the way; he won't be able to ruin the lives of the people around him.

The logical part of his brain slapped himself. Caring is not an advantage, he murmured to himself. So what if he's alone? So what if his brother hated him?

He cut again and again and again. Soon he was covered in blood and as he begun feeling light-headed, he treated his arms. No need for careless accidents now.

* * *

"What do you want now?"

"Good morning as well, brother dear, Dr. Watson."

He could hardly say his brother's and his flat mate's names. He put his best fake smile as he stood by the fireplace. Umbrella in his hand.

"Tea?" John asked. "If it isn't any trouble." he smiled at the doctor.

John went to the kitchen and fixed some tea as Sherlock tuned his violin.

"What do you want? The sooner you state your business, the sooner you can leave."

"Must I have a reason for visiting my brother?"

"Subtlety does not become you."

"I was merely dropping by to check on you." he said. It wasn't too far from the truth. He wanted to see his brother in his flat again before heading off to another meeting.

"Mycroft!" his brother snapped as he sat down John's chair. As impatient as always.

"Here's your tea." John said curtly. Mycroft smiled his thanks and drank the tea, letting it calm him and warm him. The doctor's tea could work miracles. He sighed after a long sip and made sure not to reveal any emotions to his brother.

"How's the diet?"

"Fine." he said.

"Gaining weight again I see. And you were doing so good." his brother sneered. Mycroft was not an idiot. He knew his brother wanted to rile him up in order for him to leave.

"A little childish don't you think?" he asked as he sipped his tea.

"Feeling lonely aren't we? Is cake good company?" his brother's jibes were getting to him but he would never let him hear it.

"Really, brother-mine?" he asked in a cool voice devoid of any emotion. John could see tension building."So, what brings you here, Mycroft?"

He almost forgot John was still in the room.

"Merely a social visit. Nothing to worry about." he honestly didn't know why exactly.

"Really? You could send one of your minions to check on Sherlock. Not to mention all the cameras probably in the flat." he never bugged his brother's flat; he only spied on them via street cams and CCTVs. Not that the pair would believe him.

"Better to make sure personally." he gave a fake smile. Blue eyes hiding the pain brimming in them. He finished his tea with a sigh.

"Here let me take that."

"John, I insis-"

His sleeve fell for only a fraction but the doctor spotted his old scars. So did his brother. He cursed under his breath as he flinched away from the doctor's touch.

John tried to grasp Mycroft's wrist but he flinched away.

"What is that?"

Mycroft looked at John then his brother with a raised eyebrow.

His heart was beating loudly but he put on his mask of non-chalance and merely raised an eyebrow at the two.

"Despite my brother's insistence, doctor, I am not bound to my desk. There are a number of things that could go wrong with meetings with high officials and sometimes, even a man that holds a minor position to the government, such as me, can be targeted."

He wasn't lying to them. His old scars were over-lapped by wounds from abductions. Terrorists really need to have their own cuffs so he could avoid the bite of a rope and the occasional shackle he heard from various individuals. He mentally shook his head in order to stay on track.

John gave him his beat 'doctor-glare' and he gave an amused smile. "You have no idea how loose my security is. And you cannot imagine how imaginative some people are."

As cliché as it sounds, he was saved by a ringing of his phone. He looked at the caller ID and sighed. "Sorry I have to take this, it has been wonderful. I hope you have a lovely day." he said as he went down the flat, answering his phone. "Hello? Yes, it wasn't an-"

As soon as they heard the door close John faced Sherlock. "Did your brother always have those?"

"I believe so. I can't remember. Stop worrying!" Sherlock rolled his eyes at John.

"My brother is not infallible John. Believe it or not, he has chinks in his armor as well."

"Right. Breakfast?"

* * *

Mycroft nearly sighed in relief after the call was over. He sat on his car on the way to some meeting, grateful that his associate had the perfect timing. His arms itched but he ignored them. It was time for work.

Anthea tapped at her phone as she walked towards her employer's office. "Sir, one of the MP's scheduled a meeting for you in one hour. Shall I cancel?"

She noticed the tell-tale signs of a headache manifesting itself upon Mycroft and she knew more than anyone that his headaches were worse than anyone's.

"Nonsense, my dear. Everything is fine."

"If you're sure sir."

She walked over to his desk and he looked up briefly to see a steaming cup of coffee. He smiled at her retreating form.

It was one of the rare nights that Mycroft can sleep early. Unfortunately, this night he was plagued with nightmares. He relived his brother's addiction, his failures, and the hateful gazes of people.

* * *

 **"You ruin everything."**

 **"You don't deserve to live."**

 **"You are a failure!"**

He gasped awake. He found no relief in the realization that it was all a nightmare. He rushed to the bathroom with his scalpel and cut.

He hated himself. Hated that he was a failure. Hated that he was hurting himself so much.

He removed his shirt and saw the various scars that littered his chest and stomach, most self-inflicted.

He wove the scalpel with precision and without remorse. No one cared. Why should he?

As the tears subsided he was left as a crimson mess. Dizzy but still functioning.

Not once did his phone ring.

* * *

"Didn't you know? Before his brother returned they said that he helped the detective stage the murders. Provided the body in fact."

"I heard he worked as an agent once. Slaughtered a town once too."

"Bollocks! Him? His just another suit!"

The whispers reached his ears and no doubt Anthea as well. She no doubt was glaring at the people who dare whisper against Mycroft Holmes but he could care less. Apart from the unlikely rumors, they were laced with truth. The message was simple; he was a monster, a cruel vile monster that helped the world continue to spin.

After weeks of exhausting work, endless meetings and useless people, he was back home. Alone as always.

He was in another black mood. A 'danger night' if you will. He went to the bathroom and held the scalpel like an old friend. Then again, perhaps it was his only friend. Nobody seemed to want to talk to him, the scalpel helped him forget and ease his burdens, if only a little. He tried drowning them with alcohol but lately, this seemed more appropriate. He caused people pain, it's just right to have some for himself right? After all he was a failure of a brother, a cruel manipulative bastard, and a downright monster.

He informed his brother's circle of friends whenever Sherlock would likely have one of his self-destructive episodes. He wanted to have someone inform _anyone_ that he has his black moods. That he might do something stupid to _himself_. He didn't want the scalpel in his hand, he never did, he wanted someone to hold his hand and say he should stop.

He cursed himself for being selfish. Who would bother with him?

He glanced at his phone, willing it to ring. But it didn't.

Mycroft gazed at the mirror on his office. He had large bags under his eyes, he lost weight, and he was pale. Not to mention his arms were absolutely giving him hell. He sighed at his appearance and proceeded to go outside and visit his brother. He had a case for him.

"How's the diet?"

Sherlock asked, not bothering to look at his brother. "Fine. Now if you don't mind, I have a case for you."

"Boring."

"Sherlock! We-" John stormed in just in time to see Mycroft sit down on the couch.

"What happened to you?"

"A long tiring week. Now, Frederick Wright-"

"Dull!"

He wasn't lying about the long week. He hardly had any sleep, what he had was filled with nightmares, he barely had anything to eat, and he was positively miserable. He could practically see himself try and tug for his logic to return.

"Stop being a brat an-"

"Oh stop it already. You could solve that one without even leaving your office." Sherlock glanced up and saw his brother's haggard form. His eyes raked over him, rarely did his brother show this much tiredness. He deduced that he had several meetings abroad, he hardly slept a wink and he has lost weight. He would deduce more were it not for the folder that was hit on his head by his annoyed brother. How immature.

"Remind me again, who is the older one?"

"Stop this foolishness. I have had a rather tiring week and-"

"Has it never occurred to you that I may be tired as well? All the cases I solve could wear me down, never mind the criminals after my head." irritation laced his voice as he addressed his brother. Mycroft glared at him and he glared back. John avoided the confrontation and decided to check on Mrs. Hudson.

"Ah yes, solving scandals and murders after all is quite tiring. Perhaps you would like to solve global problems instead?"

"I am not a puppet-master like you. I prefer meeting my enemies head on."

"And that went quite well, didn't it."

"Let's not forget whose fault it was in the first place." that stung. Really it did. Sherlock saw the hurt and guilt in his brother's steel gaze before it was hidden away. He felt guilty but he shrugged it off. Why should he feel guilty?

"It's always my fault, isn't it?" Mycroft said in a soft voice. Almost as if he was contemplating something.

"When was it not? You ruin everything."

"I suppose you blame me for the drugs as well?" his body began a coup with his mind and he can't stop himself, masochistic bastard that he was. Sherlock was preoccupied and didn't see the storm brewing in his brother.

"It was your fault after all. After ignoring me for so many years, you just thought that everything would be alright? I was alone! Not that you would know anything about that!"

Mycroft swallowed as his brother went to a full-blown rant.

"You never had friends, Mycroft. And because of you, I nearly lost mine." That was low. But it didn't mean he didn't deserve it.

"Sometimes, I wish that Moriarty went for you instead. I wished it was you who took the fall." his brother's words were almost a whisper. He was absolutely certain that Sherlock did not mean to say it. It was so silent he barely heard it but he might as well just have shouted it. The effect would have been the same.

"Me too." he said as Sherlock went back to his senses. "What?" he asked. "What do you mean?" he smiled ruefully at his confused brother. His chest tightened but he took the folder away and walked away.

"Nothing to concern yourself with, Sherlock."

* * *

Mycroft stood on his bathroom in the night, staring at his scar riddled body. Why did he hurt himself? He was lost and he wanted to be found. He wanted someone to notice but they never did.

His brother was right, he was lonely. John was right, it was his entire fault. Mrs. Hudson had been right; family is what they had in the end. Too bad Mycroft could be dead anyways and no one would care. Not even his 'family'.

He traced a pattern with his scalpel.

He was envious of Sherlock. Despite being a self-diagnosed sociopath, he had a circle of friends ready to support him. Mycroft had the perfect manners, the perfect attitude, one would think he would have tons of friends yet he was alone. Why was that?

Blood dripped down the white tiled-floor and he felt the sting of the scalpel but ignored it. He wanted to forget.

His phone lay forgotten on his bed.

Sherlock has been thinking recently. Their current case was almost done and he felt something...wrong. John said it must have been nerves but since his brother's last visit a few days ago, he couldn't shake the feeling that he missed something.

He had to go to Mycroft though. It was for the case, mind you, he was not checking up on his brother.

"Are you sure we should do this? We could just ring him. Or wait till morning!"

John said as they broke into his brother's house. Security will know who they are so no worries.

"We need to finish the case now! Mycroft won't even need to rise from his bed!"

They searched the flat but he was not there. They nearly gave up until they happened upon his brother's bathroom.

* * *

A few days after his last visit to Sherlock's, Mycroft is yet to have a good night's sleep. He was confused and dazed but still hurt. He still felt the crushing loneliness.

As he got home, he removed his jacket, waistcoat and tie. He rolled up his sleeves and as he blinked away the tears, he sat on the floor with the scalpel in his hands. He cut on his left arm, not caring if he went too low. He wanted to feel the pain, to feel anything but the crushing, suffocating, loneliness. Physical pain is better that emotional pain. He moved to his right arm and slashed. He watched the crimson liquid pool beneath him. He tastes the salt of his tears as he cried.

The attack he launched saved millions of lives but took hundreds for it. He remembered a little girl's eyes look at him as he sent her father to jail. He remembered the blue eyes of his brother gaze at him with so much hatred after the fall.

He remembered the ginger boy sat upon a swing, trying to comprehend why he was different, trying to make sense of his thoughts as his head began hurting. He remembered the boy turn into a teenager, proper and polite but hating every second of his existence.

He still loathed his existence. Without him, so many lives would be better.

He felt light-headed but he couldn't be bothered to get up. He was in the merciless hands of his memories and guilt.

 **"Where were you when I needed you, brother?"**

 **"You sold your own brother!?"**

 **"Mister Holmes, the attack was successful. Congratulations, sir."**

 **"Why did you have to ruin everything, you freak?"**

 **"I hate you! Stop trying to run MY life!"**

He could see black tinting his vision but he felt no panic, maybe it was for the best. Everything would be ok soon. His parents could stop worrying about him; his superiors could stop worrying that one of his plans might backfire. John didn't have to face someone who sold his best friend to the wolves. Sherlock would have his wish to be rid of the stupid, annoying, rubbish, big brother he had. Mycroft would finally be able to let go. It was all win on his mind.

Alarm bells rang in his head. Warning him of the danger. He pulled out his phone, deciding whether to call 999 or not. He saw that Sherlock tried to call him. He received two missed calls after that from John. Five from Anthea. He probably missed a meeting.

Perhaps he should call 999? People seemed to care.

"But do they really?" he whispered as he was almost unconscious.

Of course not.

* * *

"Mycroft! Hiding wo- MYCROFT!" Sherlock yelled at the sight. His brother was pale and was covered in blood, a scalpel nearby. It wasn't hard to deduce what happened.

"Jesus! I'll call 999 try to stop the bleeding." John said as he dashed out for a telephone on Mycroft's bedside.

"Mycroft, wake up. Come on, Mycroft!"

Sherlock took his scarf and pressed it to one of his brother's arms. "John! I need help here!" he tried to stop the bleeding of both his arms.

"Sh'lck?" his brother mumbled.

"Of course it's me, you idiot. How can you be so careless?"

"m'sry... 'cident" Mycroft slurred.

"Stay awake, Mycroft!"

"Why bo'er? M'lost"

Sherlock deduced that it was the blood loss talking. What was taking John so long?

"You're not lost. Everything's okay now. I found you. Better let than never, right?"

Mycroft's lip lifted and for a moment, Sherlock could have sworn he saw the clarity and awareness appear on his brother's blue-dulling- eyes and maybe have saw happiness in them. Then, Mycroft closed them, hid the blue gems away from his greedy brother, and fell limp in Sherlock's arms.

"Brother!"

Sherlock sat at the waiting room of a hospital he already forgot the name. Blood covered him and his hands shook. He found his brother, but it was too late. Why did he not notice the signs? The doctors made it clear that Mycroft had scars all over his body from years of self-harm.

John looked at his best friend with concern. Having witnessed your brother dying, would rock you to the core. He knows of Sherlock's belief that his brother would always be the constant in his life. He blamed himself for not noticing. He asked about the bloody scars a few weeks ago! He should have known.

The doctor went out the room, with a brief "You can go in now" they practically ran inside. The pleasure of having power to influence the rules of the hospital.

Mycroft looked pale. The transfusions were not enough to make him look like his old self but that was expected. Sherlock remembered the panic he felt as Mycroft went limp on his arms and the pain he felt as his brother flat lined in the ambulance.

He remembered all the times Mycroft held a vigil for days on end for him. He remembered the weariness and absolute exhaustion on his brother's eyes. He saw the pain and hurt Mycroft tried to conceal.

Looking back on their previous conversations, it was so obvious that Mycroft was hiding something.

John put a hand on his shoulder before going out to get coffee. They will be both staying here for awhile.

"Mycroft?" he said in a soft voice.

"I'm sorry for all the things I said before. I don't hate you-" he choked as he remembered that the last thing Mycroft could remember would be that of Sherlock saying something he didn't think through. Something he didn't mean.

"I'm so sorry Mye. I don't hate you. I didn't mean all those things. Please tell me it's not too late? Please."

He took his brother's pale, cold hand and brought it to his lips.

"Wake up, Mye. Please don't leave me."

Sherlock tightened his grasp of his brother. He was startled and his eyes widened and he gasped. He pushed the button to call the doctors.

"Mycroft!"


	2. Chapter 2

Adrenalin rushed in his veins. The ambulance was just a few more minutes away. John was helping him stem the bleeding. His hands were covered in blood. His brother's blood.

As the medics rushed, Sherlock pushed his way through them and got into the ambulance.

"I'll be right behind you."

John promised as the ambulance took off. His eyes followed the movements of the medical team. He didn't dare touch Mycroft.

It hasn't sunk in yet. His brother was cutting. He was hurting himself and Sherlock didn't notice. How can he not notice?

His mind processed their past interactions and found no clue regarding the issue. The only time there was a clue was when John asked about the scars that he was too arrogant to really pay attention. He wrote it off as a sloppy assignment Mycroft performed and now his brother might-

He gasped as the medics yelled. There was a shrilling monotonous beep echoing in the ambulance. His brother was flat-lining.

"Mycroft." he breathed. He was stuck on his position as the medics prepared their equipments.

He couldn't think straight.

His mind shut off, denying this was happening. He didn't notice his hand grabbing his brother's. He probably yelled, cursed and hissed.

A few minutes later, they arrived and Mycroft was wheeled away. He was stuck in the waiting room till then.

John arrived and sat next to him. Neither talked nor moved from their position.

His hands had dried blood on them and his shirt was forever stained by the crimson liquid. He made a note to burn the shirt later.

He was hardly one to talk about self-destructive habits. He understood the crushing loneliness one felt in their teenaged years. The frustration everyone was prone to. But this was Mycroft.

The omniscient, all-powerful, invincible older brother that wasn't supposed to have all these problems.

He was supposed to be perfect, arrogant, righteous Mycroft who lectures Sherlock every time he gets himself in trouble.

"It's not your fault, you know. All this- no one saw it coming." John said. Sherlock didn't respond.

'How would you know? You don't know Mycroft like I do, John. I should have noticed. Perhaps it was the pressure at work, guilt, but whatever it was, I missed it. I! I wasn't supposed to miss it.' Sherlock wanted to scream the words but he was too much in shock.

The doctor went out and Sherlock all but jumped up and rushed towards the man. He didn't pay attention to what the doctor said and went into the room. John stayed out to chat with the doctor; he was going to inform Sherlock of the damage later.

"You are such an idiot." He declared before he entered the room, he froze at the sight. His brother was pale, the stark-white sheets making him paler than he actually is. He's having a transfusion, at least three doctors were- it wasn't time for deductions. He sat down and bit his lip.

Maybe this was what Mycroft felt when he found Sherlock, over-dosed on cocaine, in a hospital. He bit his lip harder as he remembered how Mycroft clenched his umbrella so hard, Sherlock thought it would snap. He wanted something to break right now.

He gazed at his brother and his thoughts raced once again. He saw the scars criss-crossing his brother's arm, saw some poking out of his bare chest below the blankets. If he was poetic he might have said that he saw the depression in Mycroft's whole body. Looking at his brother now, he wondered yet again how he missed something as vital as this.

Why did Mycroft do it?

That was the million-dollar question.

He went to his mind-palace and re-evaluated the conversations they had again. As he happened upon one of the most recent ones, he gasped. Mycroft's last memory of him could may have well be the time he said he hated his brother. The time where he also said that he would rather Moriarty-No!

How could he be so careless? He wasn't paying attention to his words back then.

"Mycroft?"

His voice cracked. He gulped, trying to preserve some dignity.

"I'm sorry for the things I said before. I don't hate you-" he choked on his words and he fought to maintain his calm facade. How could he think such a thought?

"I'm so sorry Mye. I didn't mean all those things. Please tell me it's not too late." a tear escaped and he wiped it away quickly.

He took his brother's hand and stroked it with his thumb before bringing it to his lips.

 _"Oh Sherlock. What have you done?"_ _Mycroft breathed as he stared at his brother standing before a shattered glass-figurine. A wedding present, Mycroft deduced. Cheap, probably sent by a cousin._

 _"Mycroft! Please help me! I didn't mean to break it, I swear!"_

 _Mycroft inspected the shards and deemed them to be unfixable."Go grab some newspapers." he ordered his brother before kneeling down._

 _His brother returned and he picked the shards up and placed them at the newspaper. Sherlock tried to grab some but he swatted his hands away. The younger boy was persistent and grabbed a large shard. Mycroft tried to grab it away but Sherlock pulled. The younger Holmes was lucky to be grabbing the dull part of the shard. The elder was not as fortunate. Mycroft made the mistake of grabbing the edge and as Mycroft pulled, his palm was cut._

 _He hissed as blood begun to drip from his palm._

 _"Oh no." Sherlock said as he stared with horror at his brother's bloody hand. "I'm so sorry Mye."_

 _"Sherlock-Sherlock look at me. It's alright." Mycroft tried to calm his brother. He was not a fan of blood, especially his own, and if he was being honest with himself, he would say that he was starting to panic. He really needs to get rid of his hemophobia._

 _"Do you need me to tell mummy?"_

 _"Please."_

 _After a quick trip to the doctor, he received five stitches and a tongue-lashing for picking up broken glass. Not to mention playing inside the house. He took the blame for the broken figurine-his parents didn't like it that well and he thought it was hideous anyway- no need to give Sherlock the blame._

 _That night, Sherlock came to his room and apologized again, Mycroft shifted to the left and Sherlock climbed into the bed with him. His brother's heartbeat calming him._

"Wake up, Mye. Please don't leave me."

Sherlock said as more tears flowed.

He heard something. He gasped as he pushed the button to alert the doctors.

His brother was grunting in pain. Sherlock was sure that means he might wake up soon. He was ushered out and he found himself waiting with John once again.

"You okay?"

"Fine."

There was a brief pause.

"The doctor told me that he was doing this for years now. They told me about the scars."

"Hn."

"You know that it's okay that you didn't notice, right?"

"My brother nearly died because I missed something."

"What is it with you Holmeses? You aren't omniscient. Not everything can be 'deduced', you know!"

Sherlock paced around as John rolled his eyes at his flat-mate. He knows Sherlock won't show any emotion akin to concern but he knows he cares for his brother, his presence alone spoke volumes.

He hadn't fully forgiven Mycroft for selling his brother but he didn't hate the man. He rescued Sherlock after all and, even if he denied it, John knew that he maintained his surveillance to make sure John was alright after Sherlock's 'death'.

The doctor came out again. "He'll be awake for a few minutes before the drugs kick in. Do not stress my patient."

Sherlock ignored him again as John nodded.

"You are such an idiot, Mycroft!"

John looked at the elder Holmes brother. He was still pale but after fifteen hours and nearly dying, he deemed it 'normal'. He was lying on his back with an oxygen mask and confusion in his eyes.

"Cutting yourself? Really?" John sat down. This was going to be a long day.

"Why were you even doing it? Apparently you've been doing it for years now. And you have the gall to lecture me about the drugs? You hypocrite."

"Sherlock. He just woke up. Calm down, mate."

"What?" his hazy mind could not work it what was happening.

Mycroft stared at the interaction and tried to piece the pieces together. He was losing consciousness and he knew it.

"It's alright Mycroft. We'll be here when you wake up."

The last thing he feels is a hand brushing his hair.

John went home to rest and grab some clothes for the both of them. Sherlock stayed at his brother's side. His friend said something about Mycroft being stable but he didn't bother listening. It was just after midnight and his fingers are scratching for his violin. He is also itching for something more self-destructive but he didn't want to indulge it while his brother was in here.

He never saw Mycroft confined to a hospital before. There were brief moments where his brother would need to have stitches or check-ups but that was it. They have a high immune system so no illness stopped them from doing what they do best before. His brother could have died.

Sherlock shook his head, stopping the train of thought. He doesn't want to see his brother like this ever again. Pale, weak and vulnerable. The look was unbecoming of a Holmes, especially Mycroft. He studied his brother's feature again and tried to find clues why he would cut.

Was it because of stress, he didn't delude himself and believed Mycroft's lies. He knows how stressful life can be for Mycroft; every decision must be calculated quickly and accurately.

He ruled out insecurities hours ago. Mycroft is not some teenaged girl who had problems with weight. Despite his occasional jibes, it wasn't something Mycroft would take to heart.

A broken heart? Nonsense, Mycroft doesn't have one.

Sherlock scoffed at the thought.

Perhaps about him? Did he still feel guilty about the fall?

'Why would he still feel guilty? It was ages ago and I forgave him.'

The detective ruffled his curls and put his hands under his chin.

They needed to have a long, brotherly talk. Oh joy.

"It's been five days John! Why isn't he awake yet?"

Sherlock groaned as he paced the small hospital room as his friend sat in a chair, reading the morning paper.

"Give it time, Sherlock. These things take time."

"This is so-Mycroft to make me wait. I bet he's enjoying this."

John rolled his eyes at his flat-mate. They've had this conversation everyday for the past five days and his patience is running thin. He wanted to shake Mycroft awake just to shut Sherlock up.

As if reading his thoughts, the older Holmes brother groaned before opening his eyes.

He called for a doctor immediately.

"You are such an idiot."

Sherlock stood at the foot of the bed with his arms crossed across his chest. John sat at a chair by the wall and Mycroft sat on the bed, leaning on the pillows on his back. John knew Sherlock had been working on his 'upset little brother speech' and that Mycroft would get quite the tongue-lashing.

"You dare lecture me about my 'habits'" Mycroft avoided his eye. "Then you go cut yourself. You are a hypocrite, brother dear."

"I'm sorry." he could think of nothing else to say. His brother was correct; he even had the gall to copy Mycroft's posture and position years ago when Sherlock woke up from his over-dose.

"'I'm sorry'? Well, I guess that's that. I have cases to solve and all that but wait, I do have a question." Mycroft sighed at the mocking tone. "Why the hell did you do it?"

"Why did you do drugs?"

Sherlock was not expecting the question and he blinked.

"Because it shut off my mind. It gave me peace and quiet." he murmured.

They knew the real reason though neither acknowledged it.

"Why do other-normal- people do it?"

"Insecurities? Control? Knowing you, the problem would have an easy sol-"

"Don't be an idiot, Sherlock." Mycroft scoffed as he rubbed his head. John raised an eyebrow in amusement as Sherlock sputtered.

"Just tell me why." the younger demanded.

"Why? So you could race off to somewhere and yell at whoever causes me problems? Perhaps you'd send me some cake to make me feel better. I am fine."

"You nearly died!"

"What a shame. I'll do it more thoroughly next time."

"Mycroft!"

"Sherlock."

John sighed at the childish behavior. If this was in another circumstance, he'd be laughing his ass off. But now, he had a suicidal government official and a murderous detective in one room.

"Girls, come on. Calm down." he stood up and approached the bed.

"Now, why don't you tell us why you tried to kill yourself?"

"I didn't try to kill myself. It was a miscalculation on my part. Everything will be fine as soon as I get away from this infernal place." emotionless and precise. Mycroft Holmes all the way.

"Bullshit." he rubbed his eyes. Damn these Holmes and their stubbornness.

Sherlock couldn't take it anymore. His brother was acting like nothing was wrong and he just knows that after he gets out, he'll start cutting again. He growled and made a lunge for his brother.

Mycroft flinched away from him. Reflexes honed from years of experience where those hands lunging for his shoulders may have been aimed for his throat. His arms tensed and his reflexes almost performed a counter but he caught himself. This was his brother, not some enemy trying to kill him. A small part of his brain only believed one of the two facts right now.

"Sherlock!" John yelled.

Sherlock grabbed his shoulders, tightened his grip on them so Mycroft couldn't get away. As if he could.

"Why did you do it?"

He stared at his brother's bright blue eyes filled with anger, fear, confusion and hurt. Why would he be hurt?

He looked away. His brother shook him-a little pain in the chest, manageable- and he hissed. He looked in his eyes again. "I'm fine."

The immortal words that got him out of trouble and helped him avoid confrontations marked his doom. "That was not the question."

"Sherlock, relax. Mycroft is still recovering and you shaking him senseless might do more harm than good."

"John, please leave. Stay outside and unless we call, do not let anyone in. This is a personal matter." Sherlock said in a cold tone. John wanted to fight; he wanted what was best for the patient but one look at Mycroft made him sigh.

"Keep things quiet, alright? Do not harass your brother! Both of you!"

The door was shut and Mycroft felt relief and fear in equal measure.

His brother let him go and he slumped back on the pillows.

"Mycroft, please." Sherlock never said please to him, he looked up and saw his brother pacing. "Just tell me why."

"Why would you care?" It sounded harsh, accusing even, but it was an innocent question. Sherlock stopped pacing and gazed at his brother.

"What do you- Mycroft as much as a pain the arse you are, you are my brother! You are the only one capable of understanding how my brain works. Y-"

Mycroft scoffed. He was saved solely so he could continue his role as an all-knowing elder brother, always prepared to help his sibling but always hated as well. Who wouldn't want to live with such a purpose?

"Sherlock, call me selfish, call me arrogant, call me an ungrateful son of a bitch," Sherlock winced, his brother rarely cursed. "I hardly understand how you work. If I did then you wouldn't have to deal with your years as a junkie. It may be true that I may be the one closest to understanding you but-" he stopped. He shouldn't do this.

Sherlock studied his brother.

"Is that it then? Guilt? Mycroft those days were hardly y-"

"No!"

Mycroft screamed at him. In the first time in years, Sherlock saw emotions dance in his brother's steel blue eyes. The look alone made him want to hide.

"Don't you see, Sherlock? Not everything revolves around you. I do have a pathetic excuse of a life outside of you. It's true that I worry about you constantly and-"

Mycroft took a deep breath. He lowered his head and looked at his clenched fists.

"You once said during your days as a druggie that you took them to shut off your mind. You said you wanted to stop the flow of information assaulting your head. It made you forget all the insults and taunts, made you forget the pain."

Sherlock stared at his brother. Did he really confess that?

"You have no idea, Sherlock, why I did this. Moriarty called the iceman. How I wish that were the case."

"Mycroft." He approached his brother cautiously, as if he was approaching a wounded animal.

"I can never delete information like you. I remember things clearly and- I always remember the faces of the men I sent to die. I can remember the look on a colleague's eyes as he died. I can remember every insult I received, every life I took." Mycroft choked out.

"I remember the mistakes I made. I remember how my mistakes forced my baby brother to fake his suicide and cause a rift with his friend. I suppose you would know what it feels to be scorned, but you have no idea how much guilt I face every night."

"Brother, calm down." Sherlock was deciding whether to touch his brother or not.

Mycroft gave a humorless laugh.

"I often wondered why people assume that I am more human than you. I who fake emotions and make false friendships for the sake of the country. Apparently I had the entire world fooled, even you brother-mine, but I could never fool myself."

He chuckled again at the absurdity of it all. Perfect Mycroft with the stiff-upper lip, the perfect model for a minor official of the British government and his so-called perfect life.

He chuckled harder as tears fell from his eyes. He swallowed thickly as he was enveloped in his brother's arms.

"It's alright, Mycroft. Everything will be fine."

Mycroft was frozen as tears continued to stream down his cheeks. The last time his brother hugged him voluntarily were the day he left for uni.

"Do you know what hurts the most, Sherlock?" he mumbled on his brother's shoulder.

"I remember most of our childhood together."

It was Sherlock's turn to freeze. He was confused for a second then it dawned on him.

Mycroft can remember the little brother who adored and idolized him. Every time Sherlock hurled insults and curses towards his brother, Mycroft could only see the little brother who used to love him, scorn him.

He must have thought himself as a failure. One of the things his brother hated in the world was failure.

"Mycroft. Please-"

"I'm sorry, Sherlock. For everything."

Sherlock felt his brother loop his arms on Sherlock. He had a squeezing feeling in his chest and he wanted to throw up. His strong big brother was reduced to a suicidal, depressed man due to all the burden in his shoulders.

"It's alright, Mycroft."

"No it's not."

"Yes, it is."

Mycroft removed his arms and Sherlock pulled away. The detective can see the wheels turning in his brother's mind.

"Really, Mycroft? Insulting one's self is unbecoming of a Holmes." Sherlock teased. Mycroft's lips turned up just for a fraction.


End file.
